Ivanhoe: A Romance
matter, for he kept a good table for his prisoners, only put too much
garlic in his last dish of pottage. But these hypocritical, ungrateful
slaves, so often the self-invited flatterers at my board, who gave me
neither pottage nor garlic, more or less, they die, by the soul of
Hengist!”
“But the Pope, my noble friend,”—said Cedric—
“But the devil, my noble friend,”—answered Athelstane; “they die, and
no more of them. Were they the best monks upon earth, the world would
go on without them.”
“For shame, noble Athelstane,” said Cedric; “forget such wretches in
the career of glory which lies open before thee. Tell this Norman
prince, Richard of Anjou, that, lion-hearted as he is, he shall not
hold undisputed the throne of Alfred, while a male descendant of the
Holy Confessor lives to dispute it.”
“How!” said Athelstane, “is this the noble King Richard?”
“It is Richard Plantagenet himself,” said Cedric; “yet I need not
remind thee that, coming hither a guest of free-will, he may neither be
injured nor detained prisoner—thou well knowest thy duty to him as his
host.”
“Ay, by my faith!” said Athelstane; “and my duty as a subject besides,
for I here tender him my allegiance, heart and hand.”
“My son,” said Edith, “think on thy royal rights!”
“Think on the freedom of England, degenerate Prince!” said Cedric.
“Mother and friend,” said Athelstane, “a truce to your
upbraidings—bread and water and a dungeon are marvellous mortifiers of
ambition, and I rise from the tomb a wiser man than I descended into
it. One half of those vain follies were puffed into mine ear by that
perfidious Abbot Wolfram, and you may now judge if he is a counsellor
to be trusted. Since these plots were set in agitation, I have had
nothing but hurried journeys, indigestions, blows and bruises,
imprisonments and starvation; besides that they can only end in the
murder of some thousands of quiet folk. I tell you, I will be king in
my own domains, and nowhere else; and my first act of dominion shall be
to hang the Abbot.”
“And my ward Rowena,” said Cedric—“I trust you intend not to desert
her?”
“Father Cedric,” said Athelstane, “be reasonable. The Lady Rowena cares
not for me—she loves the little finger of my kinsman Wilfred’s glove
better than my whole person. There she stands to avouch it—Nay, blush
not, kinswoman, there is no shame in loving a courtly knight better
than a country franklin—and do not laugh neither, Rowena, for
grave-clothes and a thin visage are, God knows, no matter of
merriment—Nay, an thou wilt needs laugh, I will find thee a better
jest—Give me thy hand, or rather lend it me, for I but ask it in the
way of friendship.—Here, cousin Wilfred of Ivanhoe, in thy favour I
renounce and abjure—-Hey! by Saint Dunstan, our cousin Wilfred hath
vanished!—Yet, unless my eyes are still dazzled with the fasting I have
undergone, I saw him stand there but even now.”
All now looked around and enquired for Ivanhoe, but he had vanished. It
was at length discovered that a Jew had been to seek him; and that,
after very brief conference, he had called for Gurth and his armour,
and had left the castle.
“Fair cousin,” said Athelstane to Rowena, “could I think that this
sudden disappearance of Ivanhoe was occasioned by other than the
weightiest reason, I would myself resume—”
But he had no sooner let go her hand, on first observing that Ivanhoe
had disappeared, than Rowena, who had found her situation extremely
embarrassing, had taken the first opportunity to escape from the
apartment.
“Certainly,” quoth Athelstane, “women are the least to be trusted of
all animals, monks and abbots excepted. I am an infidel, if I expected
not thanks from her, and perhaps a kiss to boot—These cursed
grave-clothes have surely a spell on them, every one flies from me.—To
you I turn, noble King Richard, with the vows of allegiance, which, as
a liege-subject—”
But King Richard was gone also, and no one knew whither. At length it
was learned that he had hastened to the court-yard, summoned to his
presence the Jew who had spoken with Ivanhoe, and after a moment’s
speech with him, had called vehemently to horse, thrown himself upon a
steed, compelled the Jew to mount another, and set off at a rate,
which, according to Wamba, rendered the old Jew’s neck not worth a
penny’s purchase.
“By my halidome!” said Athelstane, “it is certain that Zernebock hath
possessed himself of my castle in my absence. I return in my
grave-clothes, a pledge restored from the very sepulchre, and every one
I speak to vanishes as soon as they hear my voice!—But it skills not
talking of it. Come, my friends—such of you as are left, follow me to
the banquet-hall, lest any more of us disappear—it is, I trust, as yet
tolerably furnished, as becomes the obsequies of an ancient Saxon
noble; and should we tarry any longer, who knows but the devil may fly
off with the supper?”
CHAPTER XLIII
Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom,
That they may break his foaming courser’s back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff recreant!
RICHARD II
Our scene now returns to the exterior of the Castle, or Preceptory, of
Templestowe, about the hour when the bloody die was to be cast for the
life or death of Rebecca. It was a scene of bustle and life, as if the
whole vicinity had poured forth its inhabitants to a village wake, or
rural feast. But the earnest desire to look on blood and death, is not
peculiar to those dark ages; though in the gladiatorial exercise of
single combat and general tourney, they were habituated to the bloody
spectacle of brave men falling by each other’s hands. Even in our own
days, when morals are better understood, an execution, a bruising
match, a riot, or a meeting of radical reformers, collects, at
considerable hazard to themselves, immense crowds of spectators,
otherwise little interested, except to see how matters are to be
conducted, or whether the heroes of the day are, in the heroic language
of insurgent tailors, flints or dunghills.
The eyes, therefore, of a very considerable multitude, were bent on the
gate of the Preceptory of Templestowe, with the purpose of witnessing
the procession; while still greater numbers had already surrounded the
tiltyard belonging to that establishment. This enclosure was formed on
a piece of level ground adjoining to the Preceptory, which had been
levelled with care, for the exercise of military and chivalrous sports.
It occupied the brow of a soft and gentle eminence, was carefully
palisaded around, and, as the Templars willingly invited spectators to
be witnesses of their skill in feats of chivalry, was amply supplied
with galleries and benches for their use.
On the present occasion, a throne was erected for the Grand Master at
the east end, surrounded with seats of distinction for the Preceptors
and Knights of the Order. Over these floated the sacred standard,
called “Le Beau-seant”, which was the ensign, as its name was the
battle-cry, of the Templars.
At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of faggots, so arranged
around a stake, deeply fixed in the ground, as to leave a space for the
victim whom they were destined to consume, to enter within the fatal
circle, in order to be chained to the stake by the fetters which hung
ready for that purpose. Beside this deadly apparatus stood four black
slaves, whose colour and African features, then so little known in
England, appalled the multitude, who gazed on them as on demons
employed about their own diabolical exercises. These men stirred not,
excepting now and then, under the direction of one who seemed their
chief, to shift and replace the ready fuel. They looked not on the
multitude. In fact, they seemed insensible of their presence, and of
every thing save the discharge of their own horrible duty.
And when, in speech with each other, they expanded their blubber lips,
and showed their white fangs, as if they grinned at the thoughts of the
expected tragedy, the startled commons could scarcely help believing
that they were actually the familiar spirits with whom the witch had
communed, and who, her time being out, stood ready to assist in her
dreadful punishment. They whispered to each other, and communicated all
the feats which Satan had performed during that busy and unhappy
period, not failing, of course, to give the devil rather more than his
due.
“Have you not heard, Father Dennet,” quoth one boor to another advanced
in years, “that the devil has carried away bodily the great Saxon
Thane, Athelstane of Coningsburgh?”
“Ay, but he brought him back though, by the blessing of God and Saint
Dunstan.”
“How’s that?” said a brisk young fellow, dressed in a green cassock
embroidered with gold, and having at his heels a stout lad bearing a
harp upon his back, which betrayed his vocation. The Minstrel seemed of
no vulgar rank; for, besides the splendour of his gaily braidered
doublet, he wore around his neck a silver chain, by which hung the
“wrest”, or key, with which he tuned his harp. On his right arm was a
silver plate, which, instead of bearing, as usual, the cognizance or
badge of the baron to whose family he belonged, had barely the word
SHERWOOD engraved upon it.—“How mean you by that?” said the gay
Minstrel, mingling in the conversation of the peasants; “I came to seek
one subject for my rhyme, and, by’r Lady, I were glad to find two.”
“It is well avouched,” said the elder peasant, “that after Athelstane
of Coningsburgh had been dead four weeks—”
“That is impossible,” said the Minstrel; “I saw him in life at the
Passage of Arms at Ashby-de-la-Zouche.”
“Dead, however, he was, or else translated,” said the younger peasant;
“for I heard the Monks of Saint Edmund’s singing the death’s hymn for
him; and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal and dole at the Castle
of Coningsburgh, as right was; and thither had I gone, but for Mabel
Parkins, who—”
“Ay, dead was Athelstane,” said the old man, shaking his head, “and the
more pity it was, for the old Saxon blood—”
“But, your story, my masters—your story,” said the Minstrel, somewhat
impatiently.
“Ay, ay—construe us the story,” said a burly Friar, who stood beside
them, leaning on a pole that exhibited an appearance between a
pilgrim’s staff and a quarter-staff, and probably acted as either when
occasion served,—“Your story,” said the stalwart churchman; “burn not
daylight about it—we have short time to spare.”
“An please your reverence,” said Dennet, “a drunken priest came to
visit the Sacristan at Saint Edmund’s—-”
“It does not please my reverence,” answered the churchman, “that there
should be such an animal as a drunken priest, or, if there were, that a
layman should so speak him. Be mannerly, my friend, and conclude the
holy man only wrapt in meditation, which makes the head dizzy and foot
unsteady, as if the stomach were filled with new wine—I have felt it
myself.”
“Well, then,” answered Father Dennet, “a holy brother came to visit the
Sacristan at Saint Edmund’s—a sort of hedge-priest is the visitor, and
kills half the deer that are stolen in the forest, who loves the
tinkling of a pint-pot better than the sacring-bell, and deems a flitch
of bacon worth ten of his breviary; for the rest, a good fellow and a
merry, who will flourish a quarter-staff, draw a bow, and dance a
Cheshire round, with e’er a man in Yorkshire.”
“That last part of thy speech, Dennet,” said the Minstrel, “has saved
thee a rib or twain.”
“Tush, man, I fear him not,” said Dennet; “I am somewhat old and stiff,
but when I fought for the bell and ram at Doncaster—”
“But the story—the story, my friend,” again said the Minstrel.
“Why, the tale is but this—Athelstane of Coningsburgh was buried at
Saint Edmund’s.”